


A fast walking man is hard to beat

by friendlystranger1312



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Canon Compliant, Eddie Kaspbrak & Stanley Uris Are Dead, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Jewish Richie Tozier, M/M, Mentioned Eddie Kaspbrak, Mentioned Stanley Uris, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier-centric, Why Did I Write This?, that tag makes me cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-18 22:00:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22000513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friendlystranger1312/pseuds/friendlystranger1312
Summary: He’s alone for the holidays.Which isn’t really so strange in and of itself, Richie’s been alone for twenty-seven years of his life. So, spending the festivities curled up on his couch watching those shitty stop-motion christmas movies they manage to dig out of the grave (like his memories- swirling in a slow staccato around his mind's eye) every year with a quarter drunk bottle of bourbon isn’t such a change from the norm.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	A fast walking man is hard to beat

He’s alone for the holidays.

Which isn’t really so strange in and of itself, Richie’s been alone for twenty-seven years of his life. So, spending the festivities curled up on his couch watching those shitty stop-motion christmas movies they manage to dig out of the grave ( _like his memories- swirling in a slow staccato around his mind's eye_ ) every year with a quarter drunk bottle of bourbon isn’t such a change from the norm.

But this time it’s like a part of himself is _missing_ , a phantom limb he can feel in such a visceral way if he just _closes his eyes (_ _if he_ **_believes_ ** _)_. 

Richie hasn’t believed in anything worthwhile in a long time.

He believed when he was thirteen-years-old, fresh eyed and bushy-tailed teenager thinking (as one without the cruel hand of time to beat him down does) that his friends would always be with him and the world couldn’t hurt them as long as they stayed together. 

And for a time, that's a truth. 

A fact of life like ‘ _your lungs expand and contract from the movement of the diaphragm_ ’ or ‘ _Henry Bowers is a murderous psychopath, avoid at all costs_ ’ or ‘ _this kills monsters if you believe it does_ ’.

He shudders a breath and takes a long drink from the bottle, eyes watering at the burn.

At thirteen, all those things make up the rules of his universe. So he believes. 

And then he grows up.

And he forgets.

Time makes him forget as much as the supernatural bullshit did ( _and some weak cowardly part of him_ **_wanted_ ** _to forget - Bowers, the sewer, Georgie, and that_ **_fucking_ ** _clown - stupidly thinking that the bad outweighed the good, that forgetting would be easier. That forgetting would make him heal the six holes in his heart the day he left Derry, but it never did._

 _And it never would._ )

He buries himself, all the good parts, all the things that define him as a person so far under the mask of Richie Tozier _the comedian_ , Richie Tozier _the womanizer_ , Richie Tozier _the alcoholic_ that he begins to believe it himself. 

Until he looks at himself in the mirror twenty-seven years down the line and realizes he doesn’t even _recognize_ the empty shell of a person masquerading around in a Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier’s flesh suit. It’s why when Beverly said it, that if they leave none of them make it guaranteed, he knew it was true. Because it was in his eyes that morning before Mike’s call. 

It’s been growing since he first left the Loser’s all those years ago. 

Loneliness, co-dependence, shared childhood clown related trauma- really there’s a _lot_ to unpack. But the source of it is love, sappy dumb true tangible unconditional _love_ found and ripped away so early in life that he spent decades trying to heal the weeping wound never realizing the solution wasn’t _away, away, away_ , but _toward, toward, toward_. 

The reason a part of him feels like it’s missing is because a part of him _is_ missing, the parts that make everything after- after losing so much all the more bearable. The _precious_ parts.

It’s nobody's fault, the loser’s tried to make plans, but old habits die hard and Richie pulled every excuse in the book to avoid them falling into the same rut of running away that he’s lived by his entire adult life. 

_“Put one foot in front of the other_

_And soon you'll be walking 'cross the floor_ ”

He takes another swig as Kris helps the Winter Warlock take his first stumbling steps. 

Eddie always hated this cartoon. 

“They’re fucking _creepy_ Rich, how can you sit there and watch this garbage- not to mention television rots your brain.” He gestures to his plasma screen 4K HDTV that is currently being used to it’s best ability rendering this image thank you very much _Eddie_. 

He huffs and rolls his eyes. “Do you know how many brain cells you’ve probably killed staring into this hypnotic radioactive box of death? You’ll get _eyeball_ cancer all from watching Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town!”

Richie swirls his bottle pointedly. “Not any more than this drink’s killed Eds. I’m fairly certain my bloods more liquor than erythrocytes at this point.”

The corners of his lips pitch down and he lunges at Richie practically tearing his arm off to rip the bottle from his grasp. “Wha- _motherfucker_ \- you can’t take a guys _booze_ , the _fuck_ Eds!” 

He tries to get the bottle back, wrestling with sluggish limbs (the buzz in his system working against him) but Eddie’s too spry and too sober for him and manages to cap the bottle and roll it away from them till it clacks lightly against some furniture in the distance. 

“You fucking little _dick_!” He could get up, but they both know Richie’s too lazy for that, so the bottle may as well be on the other side of the continent with how far away it is. 

“Uh, pretty sure that’s _your_ name douchebag, not mine.” He glares at him with a straight face and Richie glares right back staring into his eyes taking in the spark of passion burns in him like a raging fire.

It’s quiet, then one of them crack and their smiling at each other, twin grins laughing maniacally. Or, Richie is laughing maniacally, all loud guffs and breathy puffs of air while Eddie lets out wheezing strained chuckles as if laughing anymore openly will reveal too much. Jokes on him, Richie already knows how much he cared because he went and _fucking di_ -

“R-richie?” It’s said so small and carefully, so removed from the Eddie he knows, the bright vibrant man full of too much life and anger that’s whole presence screams ‘ _look at me, look at me_!’ 

And he never wants to _stop_ looking at him, but he’s crying and his glasses are fogging up blurring Eddie until he’s just a vague blob in his vision.

“Fuck, hey, Rich, come on. I’m right here, I’m here don’t do this man.” 

He cries harder because it _aches_ and he _wants_ to believe, same as he did as a child that his force of will can _make_ this his reality.

He clings to Eddie and cries, for all the lost time, for all the unspoken words, for all that they never got to have and never will. Eddie murmurs in his ear, soft and comforting, empty platitudes of a disturbed mind that does nothing to ease the dull ache carving out his insides.

But his insides are already empty, so it just _digs_ and _digs_ at the empty vessel walls that encompass him. 

He’s not sure how long he lays there openly sobbing hiccuping in gasping breaths ( _minutes, hours, days, weeks_ ). Time is relative, and the world is swirling enough by the end of it to be the beginning or the end ad infinitum. The only constant is _Eddie, Eds, Eddie Spaghetti_ . That’s all he thinks, breathes, lives in those moments because he’s the only _real_ thing about Richie. 

The inherent irony of that isn’t lost on him. 

He takes in a deep breath, the phantom scent of Eddie’s aftershave (something sharp with a hint of honey) and Purell wrapping around him while the TV flickers across the others face, highlighting his deep frown lines. 

It’s too real that he _believes, believes, believes, believes_ , _believes_ -

“Richie.” 

He didn’t remember closing his eyes, but he opens them again, drinking in the other like a starving man walking through a desert.

He chokes back another sob letting out a wet laugh as the others hands cup his face. “Why you crying so much Eds, I’m right here ain’t I?”

Eddie gives him a half grin, whipping the tears from his face with a gentle caress of his thumb. 

“Yeah, Rich, you’re here. Right here.”

“Stay awhile?” He says it low, barely a whisper into the room, but it speaks volumes between them that have never been spoken so brazenly. 

But he gets it, Eddie always did, knew Richie like Richie knew him. Two sides of the same coin. Two halves of the same whole. All the corny platitudes of two souls meeting in this messy world completing the other, that’s them. Always has been, always will be. 

Richie believes in that, in Eddie, in them. 

He nods.

“Always.”

And it sounds like a promise.

\------------

Richie wakes up to the sounds of movement in his kitchen, the light clack of pans and hushed arguing. He keeps his eyes closed, letting the slow ache of his limbs and the dull pain in his back from sleeping on the couch wash over him. 

He’s covered in a blanket that wasn’t there when he passed out, so unless this is the most polite burglar ever, he’s fairly certain it’s someone he knows. 

Eventually one of the voices drifts closer, the soft padding of feet on hardwood stops as they lean over him and a delicate hand runs through his hair. 

“Rich?” It’s Bev, and he lets out a hum in response. 

“Time to get up, honey. You need some water.”

There’s a snort from somewhere off in the distance, and it sounds a lot like Bill. “You sure we can’t give him an IV of bourbon? There’s, like, eight empty bottles here.”

He groans flipping the bird in his direction. “Morning to you too Billium, write any good endings lately?”

“Write any original material Tozier?”

“Yeah, your mom was a big help, kept me up late last night.” The other laughs as another figure comes closer as he sits up rubbing his face. He looks around blearily for a moment, before Bev presses his glasses to his hands and he gives her a grateful smile.

Mike stands next to her and crouches to press the glass of water into his hand and two aspirins. 

“Mikey! A true knight in shining armor you are.”

“Happy Hanukkah and Merry Christmas to you too Richie.” He settles on the couch by his feet eyeing the coffee table that’s cleaner than he remembers, but still has a number of beer bottles littering its surface. “You know you could have just called us over.”

“And miss calling the cops on a five person break-in? Come on, you know me better than that.”

Ben comes from the back of Richie’s apartment lugging three hefty trash bags that clink as he walks. “Is it a break-in when we all have a set of keys?” He looks genuinely concerned by that as Bev stands to give him a peck on the cheek and a light pat on the arm. 

“Don’t worry about it too much, love. Breakfast is almost ready.” Right then there’s a crash, and Bill curses in the kitchen. “Hm, or maybe give that a bit longer.” 

She takes one of the trash bags from him and both amble off out of his line of vision. The rest of the losers move around him so easily as he sits on the couch with Mike nursing his hangover with small sips of water.

It takes him a minute, maybe ten, but he finishes his glass and slumps onto Mike’s shoulder hooking their arms together. “Thanks Mikey.”

“Anytime Rich.” He pats his hand, warm, solid, and comfortable against Richie’s clammy skin. 

And he knows he means it, all of them do. Like a piece of a puzzle slotting into the right spot, he feels complete in a way he can’t put into words. Not complete, as in _he’s_ whole, too much of him has been eroded or torn away for him to ever feel that way again. But as if some cosmic wrong in the universe is righted by the five of them together in one place. 

“You know Florida’s pretty nice this time of year, Bev and Ben were thinking of taking the boat down that way. And Bill’s been crashing on my couch already.” 

It’s an offer. One similar to what all the losers have been saying to him, and he goes to refuse again ‘ _I’m a west coast man now, just thinking of heading East gives me hives_ ’ or ‘ _I’ve got big plans here, my couch won’t wear a butt print into itself_ ’ but he shifts and the smell of aftershave and Purell hits him like a slap.

Oh.

He pulls at the hoodie he’s wearing and realizes it’s Eddie’s. He vaguely remembers stumbling to the over sized suitcase shoved into the corner of his room and pulling it out. 

His eyes water, but he holds it back, more out of exhaustion than any real handle on his emotions. 

His mouth opens and closes, clearing his throat a few times. He wants to ask ‘Does it get any easier Mike?’ because of any of them Mike understands more than most what it’s like to lose.

But all the words fall flat. 

Instead he says, “Did you know Eddie was afraid of Santa Claus? He told me it’s because the thought of a strange guy slipping down their dirty chimney to shove bacteria ridden food left out all night into his face sounded more like a nightmare than a cute childish belief.”

Mike laughs, and it’s warm and real and comforting to the point that Richie smiles with him. 

“Sounds about right, is that why you always wore those really terrible christmas sweaters?”

“Yeah, it had a duel purpose of freaking Eddie out and irritating Stan. They called them an affront to nature.”

“That’s cause they were!”

“My style was just ahead of its time. It’s called _ugly chic_ now.”

They settle in for the day, shooting stories and reminiscing. About their lives post-Derry, about dumb adventures they had as kids and then teenagers, about Stan, about Eddie. 

It helps.

Come sundown, Bev manages to track down his Menorah, and they set it up on the table by his door gathering close together. 

Richie’s never been the most religious, practicing out of obligation than any true personal conviction. But in that moment, sharing with those he loves, he believes.

He believes in them.

As he lights the shamash candle, he feels joined with his family, all of them: Mike, Bev, Ben, Bill, Eddie, and Stan.

And for now, it’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> The holidays are always bittersweet to me. There's so much love in my life, but it's hard not to remember those I've lost as well, so I projected on this a little bit.
> 
> Love to you all ❤︎
> 
> Twitter: [@edspageds](https://twitter.com/edspageds)


End file.
